Caitlin Dougherty, Smith College Class of 2019
Manufacture
The work of the Vel the potter’s family began early. Vel’s eldest son, Cae, in the process of learning his father’s trade, was often tasked with retrieving clay and water from the Fiora river. He was aided by a hired worker, as the trek to the river just outside of the city of Vulci was formidable when burdened by the materials they collected. Just before sunrise, when the pair returned, they piled the clay in the pottery yard before immersing some of it in a below-ground tub full of water. One of them agitated the clay in this tub while the other skimmed off debris as it was driven to the surface. They worked together to pump this slip into a basin, where the heaviest clay particles sank to the bottom. Finally, the pair pumped the slip into a new basin, where it was allowed to rest and become workable clay. They repeated this process several times in preparing clay that could be used late in the afternoon or the following day.
By midmorning, Vel, joined by his wife, Hastia; daughter, Thethis; and younger son, Sethre, arrived at the workshop. Wasting no time, Vel set about wedging the clay he would use for the day. He and Sethre dumped a batch of clay on the floor of the workshop and began working it with their feet. The potter showed his son how to work the edges of the clay pile with his heel, twisting the clay in a counterclockwise direction and pressing it down. When the clay achieved the proper texture, Vel took a portion of it to his wheel. Sethre turned the wheel for him, allowing Vel to throw a wine jug with tall, thin walls and a lip for pouring. When he was satisfied with its shape, he separated the olpe from the wheel with a wire as his son gently turned the wheel. Sethre set the olpe on a shelf to dry; Vel continued to throw wares until he finished a batch, and then he started on forming the handles.
Once the jugs reached the proper degree of leather-hardness, Hastia and Thethis painted designs on them with clay slips. For black designs, they mixed water with potash to make it alkaline, then added some very fine clay to turn the mixture into a slip. For red designs, ochre and manganese replaced the potash. The potter’s wife often acted as kiln master and was in charge of igniting the kiln and regulating the flow of air throughout the firing process, but Vel, Cae, and the hired worker were all comfortable undertaking this task. The firing was done in batches, and although the wares would only be fired once, the firing procedure consisted of three phases of temperature and airflow changes. The wares were allowed to cool in the kiln and then were stored on shelves in the workshop.
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While this object has the appearance of ceramic ware produced in Corinth , analysis of its chemical composition reveals that it was likely produced in Etruria in or near one of three main production sites: Vulci, Caere, and Tarquinia (Gerdes 10). This object is specifically an oinochoe, perhaps an olpe—or wine jug—that is now missing its handle, lip, and most of its neck. The Etruscocorinthian style illustrated by this olpe developed in the 6th century B.C. from the Transitional and Ripe Corinthian styles, which were noted for their incorporation of “oriental” design elements; heraldic animals such as lions, boars, stags, and panthers; sphinxes and other hybrid mythical creatures featured prominently alongside ornate rosettes and thick Laconian bands—a holdover from early black-figure pottery (Cook 142). By the middle of the 6th century B.C., potters in Etruria were churning out Corinthian-esque black-figure ware which departed drastically from the earlier Greek style in both the bodily proportions of the animals depicted and the overall complexity of the subjects. The Etruscocorinthian style was simpler and less concerned with presenting a naturalistic portrait of animals than its predecessors. The scrimping on detail on this olpe, particularly in the integrity of the rosettes, may be a demonstration of this Etruscan influence, or it may indicate that this intended as a common ware (Buschor 43).
This olpe was produced collaboratively in a workshop. The only known potters from this time period were men, but this role can not be called definitively male. In surviving Greek and Etruscan art, both women and men are depicted as painters; it is possible that the task of decoration was delegated to either men or women, while the men were solely charged with making the pottery. In order to create pottery, clay would have to be collected: primary clay is mined from its origin, while secondary clay is collected after being eroded from its source and deposited elsewhere (Schreiber 3). Because secondary clay is far more common and workable, it is probable that the craftspeople who made this olpe would have used it rather than primary clay. This means that someone would have to collect the clay from where it was most abundant—lake, river, and marine beds—and bring it to the pottery yard, where it would be added to a tub with water and agitated. Debris and impurities in the clay would be removed, and the clay would be transferred into a basin, where its heaviest components could separate out (Schreiber 8). Then, the clay slip would be transferred again to another basin to solidify. The potter or his assistants could either remove chunks and wedge them by hand, or wedge the whole batch on the floor using their feet.
Once the clay was properly wedged, the potter could finally throw his wares on a wheel that had to be turned by one of his assistants (Schreiber 13). He primarily manipulated the clay with his hands, but may also have utilized tools such as shapers—to smooth the surface of the clay—and scrapers—to thin the clay walls. When he was finished shaping the piece, he separated it from the wheel with a wire and set it aside to harden. He formed any necessary appendages and set them aside to harden concurrently; these would have to be attached with slip or clay when the piece was the correct consistency (Schreiber 23). The piece was decorated with a gloss made out of very fine clay mixed with alkaline water to produce black designs (Schreiber 53). Ochre and manganese washes were used to achieve yellow and red color (Schreiber 49). The piece would then be fired in a wood powered kiln. A kiln master was in charge of igniting the kiln and controlling the airflow throughout the firing process. The relationship of oxygen and carbon dioxide within the kiln’s chamber, as well as the chemical composition of the clay used to make the ware, determined the finish and color of the completed ware (Schreiber 55).
Original Use
In preparation for the dinner and banquet held to celebrate the birth of his son, a wealthy Etruscan man called Aranth purchased a new olpe from Vel’s workshop. He brought it, along with a new decorative krater, back to his home, where the members of his household had already started to prepare for the festivities. His friends arrived and they began their dinner in the early evening. When everyone had had their fill, the group moved into the andrôn (men’s dining/drinking room). While he and his companions reclined on the couches therein, an oinochoos, a young man from another wealthy family in Aranth’s broad social circle, brought the new krater into the center of the room with the help of one of the household’s slaves. The symposiarch was chosen from among the guests and dictated the water-to-wine ratio for the night. The oinochoos then mixed water and wine in the krater while the slave distributed the kylikes (drinking cups). When the wine was sufficiently diluted in the krater, the oinochoos used the olpe to fill each person’s kylix with wine. He did this many times before the night was through.
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This object can be classified broadly as an oinochoe (“wine-pourer”)—a very common class of wares—and more specifically as an olpe (from an older word meaning “leather wine-skin”) (Moser 38). The olpe was essentially a pitcher that could be used to hold water, wine, or any other liquid; its curved spout and tall handle made it ideal for pouring out whatever it was filled with. There is no definitive account of its acceptable uses, and because of its ubiquity, it is probable that the use of the olpe varied widely depending upon the circumstances. Undecorated versions of these vessels may have been common in households, with the more ornamental of them being reserved for special events. It is also possible that some olpai were made as decorative pieces or grave goods.
Olpai would of course be essential at a symposium, where wine was consumed in great quantities. It is likely then that a well-decorated olpe such as this one would be purchased by a wealthy household for use in symposia and grand meals. This is supported by the association of “orientalizing” designs with high social status individuals who were capable of harboring “eastern sympathies” (Topper 92). Oinochoe would have been handled by designated oinochoos (“wine-pourer/wine-bearer”) who were either slaves of the hosts or who were “wellborn” young men not quite old enough to take part in the actual symposium but nevertheless compelled to “serve their elders” as a means of securing their position in high society (Topper 56). In sympotic practice, a krater was the vessel in which wine and water were mixed according to the randomly appointed symposiarch’s preference for the evening (Garland 150). The olpe would have likely been used to ferry diluted wine from the krater to the guests’ cups.
Reuse
The olpe saw many seasons of use by Aranth and his family. Even when it was not being used at a lavish banquet or family meal, its detailed and vivid designs made it worthy of a position in front of the other ceramic wares on their shelf. Aranth’s wife, Tita, was particularly fond of the piece, and on the occasion that she was feeling indulgent, she would use it — even when the task at hand did not call for a wine jug. She imagined that the beauty of the olpe magnified the potency of its contents, whether it was robust wine to be consumed in celebration or fresh water to be given to a member of the household who had fallen ill. In one such case, when the fate of their only son, Larce, seemed dire after persistent bouts of fever, she made sure to bring water in the olpe to his bedside with hopes that the jug’s beauty and reliability would augment the healing properties of the water. His miraculous recovery reinforced her beliefs about the olpe, much to the amusement of the rest of the family, and thereafter she sought to use it as often as possible.
When Larce was wed and his bride had settled into their home, the Tita attempted to persuade her daughter-in-law Ramtha of the importance of the olpe’s use. The latter remained unconvinced, perhaps in light of the new bucchero ware she had received as a wedding present. With the family’s newfound interest in using and displaying this fine, matte-black earthenware, the olpe regained its status as ordinary in the eyes of all but Tita, who harbored some fondness for it even after it had fallen out of style in their social circle. While she no longer was vocal about its luckiness, she made sure it was on display in the dining room rather than on a shelf in the storage room. When the thin-walled bucchero ware was inevitably broken in its routine use, the Etrusco-Corinthian olpe was a stand-in until it could be replaced.
Only a few years had passed before his mother became gravely ill; Larce recalled her olpe, which had since been relegated to the duty of dust collecting in their storage room. Desperate to tap into the good luck with which his mother credited the olpe, or perhaps feeling acquiescent as he was confronted with her worsening condition, he made sure to bring her water solely in the olpe she was so proud to own.
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The inspiration for the potential contemporary reuse of the olpe came from the article “The Etruscans and their Medicine” in which Ralph Major claims that Etruscans “laid great stress on the curative properties of water,” and cited hydrotherapy and the construction of baths as evidence (304). In addition, Etruria was well known for creating and using drugs; thus, an adolescent surviving a serious illness was a plausible plot point. A discussion about Etruscans’ frenzied purchasing of the eponymous category of Greek kylikes in Sheramy Bundrick’s “Athenian Eye Cups in Context” also expanded this consideration of reuse into the spiritual or ritual significance of what appear to be everyday objects. The article also called into question my earlier understanding of the symposium as enacted in Etruria: despite being strongly influenced by their material and social culture, Etruscans necessarily differed from Athenians, and the Greeks at large, in the use of objects inspired by Greek prototypes as well as in imported Greek rituals. Kylikes, for example, were used in Etruria not only as quotidian drinkware, but as objects explicitly destined for use in funerary rituals—or, as Bundrick’s analysis of one exemplary kylix contends, for ultimate possession by an underworld god (311).
If it is the case that Etruscans associated water with healing power—or any power at all—and if it was also the case that they used what were vessels originally constructed by and for Greeks as they saw fit, then it is not a stretch to believe that Etruscans would have had uses for wares which were ostensibly different from their intended use, i.e. as a vessel for water instead of wine. This concept was further supported by an observation of my own questionable use of dining ware: if I regularly make do with what I have by using objects differently than they were perhaps intended to be used (e.g. using a coffee mug as storage for sugar packets, or drinking out of mason jars, or using a tupperware lid as a plate), then it is reasonable to believe that Etruscans may have done the same. Furthermore, it seems likely that a person might use an object more because of an aesthetic preference or a belief in its ability to provide luck (e.g. choosing a plate that shows fewer signs of wear, or only using a specific mug for your coffee when you write a paper). Guided by these conclusions, the characterization of the wealthy man’s wife is altered in favor of a more relatable, human portrayal.
Deposition
Uncertain of how to help his wife’s condition, Aranth resolved to consult a priest trained as a haruspex. The haruspex agreed to read the entrails of a sheep to divine the fate of Tita so long as the wealthy man provided the sheep in addition to something for his trouble. Aranth easily procured a sheep and a small payment for the haruspex, who ritually slaughtered the animal in a nearby sanctuary and extracted its liver for reading. Standing before Aranth and the small crowd that had gathered in the local sanctuary, the haruspex began examining the outer edge of the liver, working his way inwards in two clockwise circles. His face grew solemn. He informed his audience that the gods must be very displeased, for he had not ever seen so many ill omens at once.
The haruspex’s dire prophecy was confirmed when the Tita passed the next day. Devastated, the family began to prepare the family tomb in the Vulci necropolis with objects and furniture which would accompany her in the afterlife. Her body was wrapped in linen by Ramtha to prepare it for inhumation, while Aranth was tasked with purchasing her terracotta sarcophagus and stone funerary couch. When these duties were completed, Tita was carted to her final resting place by her family and a procession of mourners, through the city and down the long, dark corridor of the family tomb. Once her body was placed in the elaborately decorated sarcophagus, which sat upon the stone couch, the priest sacrificed a hen at the tomb’s altar to help her secure safe passage to the afterlife. In this chamber painted to look like their home, her family deposited some furniture and jewelry which she had used in life and would therefore need in death, and the housewares were ritually broken to prevent their use by the living—though Aranth could not bring himself to shatter her precious olpe—before being placed in the chamber. When the funeral had concluded, the tomb was resealed until the next family member would be inhumed there.
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The Van Buren olpe was in all likelihood excavated from a tomb, which is where much of the present information about the Etruscans and life in Etruria is derived. Thus, it was necessary to place it in a tomb—a necropolis being the most logical choice considering this story is set in Vulci—through funerary ritual. The inclusion of the haruspex consultation is based on the reputation of the Etruscans among the Romans for being exceedingly religious and superstitious as well as adept at augury (Bonfante 362). If the Etruscans were superstitious, even a little, it is reasonable to think that when faced with a crisis they would seek the services of an expert in interpreting the will of the gods. With regard to the later animal sacrifice, blood was an important part of Etruscan ritual, and imagery from Etruscan tombs suggests that altars were used for animal sacrifice within a funerary context (Camporeale 221). While it is probable that a priest would be present with the family during a funeral, it is not clear who else in the community would have attended an aristocratic woman’s funeral; again Etruscan tomb imagery shows that funerals could be well attended and even celebratory in nature (Tuck 49). The funeral procession and small gathering of people at the actual inhumation was a safe bet. The Etruscans believed strongly in an afterlife where one would need one’s belongings, so the olpe, which was special to the wife, was certainly going to be placed in the tomb along with jewelry, furniture, and other housewares (Camporeale 226).
Acquisition
From the time she was old enough to wriggle into narrow tunnels and then scrabble out of them, Piera had learned to loathe the coming of spring. While the end of the rainy season meant warm days spent darting through the tall, dewy grass and between the cork oaks adorned with fresh growth that grew around her home, Piera resented that the season brought with it the twice monthly excursions to the countryside. On a typical trip, she could expect that she would accompany her parents and a few of their friends for an afternoon walk which was far too long for her taste. When they had arrived in a spot that one of the adults had picked out, one where the unruly grass grew less abundantly, Piera would be tasked with the unpleasant role of squeezing through the shaft they created in the compacted dirt.
Once she had crawled in, Piera would evaluate the tomb’s contents; this part of the process she was starting to find tolerable because she was, in those moments, the voice of authority in the group. If the tomb had not been picked clean of anything valuable, Piera would crawl back out and watch as the adults worked to dig a sizeable entryway. On this particular night, however, the normally nimble Piera lost her footing when she landed and unceremoniously tumbled onto a pile of ceramic wares. She hoped that the adults above had not heard the crackle and crumble of the freshly exposed earthenware. When she reluctantly resurfaced, her mother’s pursed lips and her father’s furrowed brows proved otherwise. Nevertheless, the group set about creating an entrance. This work was finished before the sun went down, and the group split up to return the following night. Then, they carefully removed the now-oxidized wares—or what was left of them—and bagged them in large sacks full of hay.
Piera’s hapless drop resulted in only a few saleable finds: a jug, a few cups, some vases, and a mirror. Most of these were chipped or had developed hairline cracks, and were it not for the high demand for any semblance of material classical history in the booming antiquities market of Rome, these items would have to have been left behind. As it was, Piera’s father knew that he would not be able to get the full price from his contact in Rome, Fausto Benedetti. In autumn, when a young American scholar whom he had gotten to know in the city expressed interest in acquiring antiquities, Benedetti was all too happy to sell it at a price agreeable to a student, making a small profit. That student, Albert William Van Buren, who had collected every ancient thing he could afford during his early years in Rome, would, two years after buying the most intact object: an Etrusco-Corinthian wine jug, send a small collection home to Yale University. The collection, which had arrived with a now-broken olpe, would stay there largely unused until 1925, when it was sold to a Smith College Latin professor (Bradbury).
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In the early 1900s, there was no legislation in Italy that would have prevented the widespread looting of classical antiquities from her soil. “Archaeologists” like Van Buren or any casual collector would have no trouble acquiring Etruscan artifacts so long as they could pay. Van Buren’s journal mentions he acquired the olpe from one “Benedetti,” who is presumably Fausto Benedetti, an antiquities dealer active in Rome who is known to have sold some artifacts to Van Buren (Bonfante et al. 245). Lacking accounts of early twentieth century tombaroli, modern examples—such as those recorded by Fiona Rose-Greenland and Cristina Ruiz—provided some clues as to how looters would approach the problem of opening a tomb and extracting its contents. Piera’s role in the story closely follows that of Rose-Greenland’s “Michele,” who, as the smallest individual in the family, was the obvious choice for sending into small spaces to determine if the tomb was worth the hard work of careful excavation (570). The detail about the appearance of grass where tombs were found came from Cristina Ruiz’s interview with “Antonio Induno,” in 2000, in which Induno explained that sparse or dry patches of grass as well as fig trees often marked tomb locations. Induno also contributed the detail about the necessary oxidation of wares, without which the ceramic pieces would crumble (Ruiz). The circumstances which resulted in the breaking of the olpe are recorded by Van Buren as being a product of their shipment to the U.S., although it seems likely that the vessel was not structurally sound before its journey across the Atlantic, and it might have even been cracked or missing pieces (some of which remain missing) at the time of its shipment.
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